Love at a Glance
by Thrice Written
Summary: Sweethearts Week 2013 one-shots from the USxUK LJ Community. Lots of smut, as always, and several selections from last year's poll (which include the King Arthur AU, the nude photography AU, and merman!Alfred). Fluff is guaranteed, because it's our boys we're talking about. Angst will be at a minimum. Enjoy!
1. Day 1: Prom Night

**Love at a Glance**

USUKUS

**R18**

* * *

**Author's Notes**:

Welcome to my Sweethearts Week 2013 anthology! I'm going to kill myself again getting all these prompts done in time, I know, but I'll be damned if I'm going to miss this year's event. Therefore, it's likely that all of the entries will be fairly short (around 1,000 words or so). But I hope you'll enjoy them regardless!

Oh, and because I never really got around to writing sequels/continuations for the entries you guys voted on from last year's Sweethearts Week (oops), they'll be making their debut as a part of this year's collection. A little something to look forward to. :)

**Warnings: **lots and lots of smut because having smut in every entry is one of my personal goals, the (not so) occasional cliche

Now, without further ado . . .

* * *

**[Day 1: "Always Beside You"]**

**x**

_**Prom Night**_

* * *

Two in the morning, and Arthur was so nervous that he could almost feel the sweat pooling in his palms.

The hotel where he'd made a reservation (the one where most of the prom-goers had made reservations, actually) was just across the street. But for some reason or another, Alfred had insisted they meet up first in Arthur's car outside the fancy prom-designated restaurant instead of at the hotel. Which could have spelled disaster in so many ways, if he'd stopped to think about it, but Arthur had been too smitten by the fact that Alfred had actually _asked him to prom_ to pay much attention to details.

All right, so Alfred hadn't really asked. It was more like, "So you can take my sister Emily and I'll take your sister Alice so people won't figure out about us and then we can chill together after prom once Emily and Alice go home with their friends." That part, Arthur understood. Yes, he and Alfred had been in a clandestine relationship since sophomore year, but since they were both constantly in the limelight—what with Alfred being football captain and Arthur being student council president—they'd kept what they had very low-profile. Only their sisters and a couple of their shared friends knew, because it was no secret that despite all the GSA events their school held, there was still a fair amount of homophobia present amongst the student population, especially among the athletic teams. Because their school was a democracy, one wrong move could have meant a dismissal from office for Arthur and removal of captain status for Alfred.

But it was prom, and no one would be watching them closely for "queer behavior." They had the remainder of the night to themselves.

Still, Arthur came close to jumping out of his skin when he heard the telltale rap on the passenger-side window. Alfred grinned at him through the glass, so ridiculously handsome in his black tux that Arthur could feel his own heartbeat rise in his throat.

The first thing Alfred did when he got in the car was kiss Arthur. And it was the kiss of all kisses: hard, hot, charged with electricity, a kiss that said _I want you right now and I'm not gonna take "no" for an answer._ Before he knew it, Arthur found himself pressed back-first against the driver's window, his hands clutching Alfred's jacket, Alfred half-straddling his thigh and in the middle of tugging Arthur's legs even farther apart.

"Wait . . . what about the hotel?" Arthur asked, hearing the shiver in his own voice.

Alfred grinned at him charmingly, devilishly. "It can wait, babe."

"But the room—"

"It'll still be there in twenty minutes or so."

"What exactly are you—" Alfred kissed the question from his lips, and when they surfaced again, Arthur was panting for air, his body sprawled rather awkwardly across the driver's seat. Alfred had managed to unsnap his cummerbund while he was distracted and was taking the opportunity to begin plucking open his jacket and dress shirt.

He pressed his lips to Arthur's skin for every inch he uncovered. "Diamond buttons. Classy."

"N-not real diamond . . ." Arthur's breath hitched when Alfred's tongue met his navel. "Oh, God, Alfred. Are we really going to have sex in my car when we have a perfectly good reservation at the hotel just across the street?"

"Nope. I'm just gonna blow you. The actual sex'll happen at the hotel, I promise."

Well, damn if Arthur didn't stop breathing altogether when he heard that. Alfred had reached his trousers by then, and was teasing the zipper down with one hand while the other settled on fondling Arthur's nipple. He rolled it gently, and Arthur arched, grabbing Alfred's warm wrist and holding on tightly. So many sensations on his body at once . . . it was dizzying, in the most delicious, scandalous way. They hadn't spent a lot of time together in private as a couple, but it was enough to make Arthur ache at the memory of Alfred's mouth, of his firm cock, of lips swollen and tender and semen wet between his fingers and thighs.

He couldn't help the moan that escaped when Alfred closed his mouth on him, and even though he should have gotten used to Alfred's sun-dazzling attention over the course of twenty-four months, he still felt heat rush into his face when Alfred glanced up at him, amused.

"Don't look at me . . . like that . . ."

"Why not? You're so sexy," Alfred murmured around the tip of his cock. He gave Arthur's foreskin a soft tug downwards to lick at the slit, and Arthur moaned again before quickly cramming his knuckles in his mouth to stifle the sound. Definitely wasn't the first time he'd received a blowjob from Alfred in his car, but the dark cast of the sky outside and the entire after-party atmosphere had his senses on high. He couldn't see anything except outlines, couldn't hear anything except his and Alfred's uneven breathing, couldn't feel anything but Alfred's hot tongue on his cock and his large hand on his chest, but every sensation was larger than life, sweeter than honey—

Arthur hadn't realized he'd closed his eyes until they sprang open at the feel of Alfred's fingers trailing down his body. All too soon, Alfred released him to pull his pants farther down, and then two fingers were inside him, curling against his prostate.

"Alfred, I—I thought—ah, yes, oh God—" Arthur couldn't even get a proper sentence out. "I thought you said—"

Alfred nuzzled the inside of his thigh. "Just hang on a sec, okay, sweetheart?"

Arthur wanted to reassert that while car sex was nice, it wasn't quite what he had in mind for that particular night . . . but it seemed that Alfred was one step ahead. Alfred made no move to take off all of his clothes; instead, he went down on Arthur again as his fingers continued to swirl inside him. It was a combination that they hadn't tried before, and it wound Arthur up so tight that he thought he'd snap if he didn't reach his climax soon—which he did, nearly before the thought had time to register.

With a swallow, Alfred took him in even deeper, then slid him out of his mouth after a moment with a satisfied sigh. He crawled up over the gear shift so that he was level with Arthur and draped himself over him unabashedly. "We can go to the hotel now."

"Mmm. Can't keep you waiting, can we?" Arthur slipped a hand down Alfred's body, but Alfred caught it with his own before it could reach its destination and gave his bitten knuckles a butterfly kiss.

"Do you want me to drive?"

"Yes, please, if you don't mind."

Alfred puckered his mouth up in Arthur's direction, and Arthur chuckled before indulging him, giddy with the thought that the rest of the night was theirs, and that they were, without a doubt, going to make the most of it.


	2. Day 2: The Shores of Avalon

**-x-x-x-**

* * *

**[Day 2: "Masquerade"]**

**x**

_**The Shores of Avalon**_

* * *

_King Arthur AU. Sequel to "Beyond the Mists," which can be found here: www fanfiction net/s/7817459/2/It-Goes-Without-Saying-Baby (add in the periods). You should probably read that first, or you might get really confused. Also, super angst. You've been warned._

-x-x-x-

_Avalon is dead. Avalon is dead, and I am betrayed—betrayed by my wife and my sister—betrayed by the Goddess that I had forsaken, betrayed by the God I had turned to in the desperate absence of her guidance, betrayed by my people, my body, my strength—betrayed, even, by you, my cousin, my dearest love, my only—what have I done wrong? Where have I gone amiss? All I had ever wanted . . . was the best for Britain, the best for Avalon . . . the best for Lilli, my wife . . . the best for all of those I held precious . . . and yet, I have failed somewhere, taken a false step, and it has plunged me into a dark despair from which I will never free myself again . . . I have failed . . . my own son . . . I have failed . . ._

Words, words upon words upon prophecies, spilled from Arthur's lips in an ugly, wretched torrent. The Sight that Alfred had once so begrudged him for having speaking through him, the High King of Britain—once so regal, so dignified, so infallible—reduced to a mere puppet of the Goddess's will for the first time in the many years he had refused her influence. And yet there existed still a grain of consciousness in him, a grain that was less a blessing than a curse, for he could hear the blurred truths that he spoke without his own consent and was powerless to silence himself. The blurred truths, mingled indiscriminately with Arthur's own grief and insecurities, entwined with no beginning and no end.

It shook Alfred to his very bones. "Arthur," he began shakily. "Arthur, please, compose yourself—"

An awful sob tore free from Arthur's throat. The goblet of wine he held, left over from the castle's Beltane celebrations and brought up to his private chambers with them, fell from his nerveless fingers and crashed to the floor, splattering the stones a dark crimson. _I have failed . . ._

Alfred did the one thing he could think of to do: he drew Arthur into his arms and held him tightly, felt Arthur's fluttering heartbeat and Arthur's trembling limbs and Arthur's heat against his chest. Bit by bit, the otherworldly energy that was stretching Arthur's body taut began to drain away; he slowly slackened in Alfred's grip, and his voice lost its resonating quality as it became wholly his own again.

"I have failed, Alfred," he whispered brokenly. "I could not . . . save my own wife from being violated by another man . . . I could not save Britain without sacrificing Avalon . . . I could not even . . . my son . . ."

Alfred's heart clenched at the mention of the atrocity that had befallen Lilli—the one that he himself had not had the foresight to prevent—but said as soothingly as he could, "You need not worry. You have no son, remember? Nor a daughter. You have no children, Arthur; calm yourself."

Arthur blinked in confusion. "H-how . . . could that be?" He pulled back from Alfred, searching his face with watery green eyes. "I dreamt . . . I could have sworn . . . he was a thin lad, with hair as fair as mine and skin paler than milk. And his eyes . . . he had the darkest eyes, the most anguished, uncaring face . . . as if he knew his father had abandoned him. He held a sword in his hard fist—not the Sword of Avalon, but a plain sword of ordinary make, the point of which he brought to my chest to cut through the fabric because I wore no armor and carried no shield and had no enchantments to protect me . . ."

"It was a vision, a misleading one," Alfred said, trying hard to keep the uncertainty and fear from his own voice. He knew—he _knew_—that Arthur and Lilli were childless. He had been at their sides for decade after decade of war and reform, and he had seen how much it had shamed them both as youth gave way to middle age and infertility without even a whisper of hope for an heir, even after Arthur had converted to Christianity and devoted himself to God, even after he had turned his back on the pagan rites, turned his back on his Avalonian descendants and his own Avalonian blood and wore Excalibur on his belt only as a symbol of power. "You and I both know how deceptive the Sight can be. It makes reality seem surreal and allows imagination to overtake the senses. Perhaps it was only a manifestation of old expectations—"

"But he was so real. He was right there, standing before me, defiant and furious and radiant with intent . . . he was like a younger version of myself, Alfred, save his face was corrupted with resentment and his young hands were dirtied with blood . . . was it I who did that to him?" On that last question, Arthur stuttered, his tone wavering into doubt once more.

Alfred grabbed his hands to steady them. Arthur's skin was hot, almost feverish; and the memory struck him like a blow. One Beltane, years upon years ago, when they were still young and impulsive, when Arthur had guided him into the heart of the pagan fires and the Goddess's trap and they had . . .

And now it was Beltane yet again, and they were both married, and Alfred had a wife and three children and the irrepressible restlessness of one who knew where he had laid his love in the past and wished, with all his being, to be able to reclaim it without consequence. There was Lilli, whom he'd played lover to for years in the wake of Arthur's deliberate inattention; there was Aislin, the Lady of the Lake, successor of his own mother to the title, Arthur's half-sister and the only one whose faith, whose blasphemous faith, remained in Avalon; and there was Arthur. Arthur, High King of Britain. Arthur, who bore the faded blue serpents of Avalon along his wrists as Alfred did. Arthur, who forsook Avalon for his beloved Britain. Arthur, who had once pleaded for his touch and received it, and not spoken of it since because what they had, what they wanted, was impossible.

But Arthur melted into him now, inhibitions either forgotten or set aside. Alfred was clumsy with the polished gold buttons of Arthur's surcoat, but instead of pushing him away—for when had Arthur ever pushed him away? Was it not Alfred who had always been so unwilling?—Arthur's fingers joined his own, patiently undoing the fastenings and parting the thick velvet. He wore a simple tunic underneath; Alfred could see, and feel, the rise and fall of his chest through the fabric.

Then came Arthur's shoes, and his hose, peeled away until there was nothing concealing his body save thin linen undergarments. He had a slender frame, arms and legs graced with lean muscle and hair as fine as cornsilk. His skin was no longer as smooth and flawless as it had been in their youth; scars patterned him like spells. Where there was no scarring, there were thickened veins and callouses from exposure. And yet, he still remained as beautiful to Alfred's eyes as he ever had. Alfred wished he could tell him that, wished he could put words to the emotions welling up inside him, but Arthur's face told him there was no need to. They both understood.

Silence would serve them well.

Alfred was quick to shed his own clothing. It all felt like a dream, a dream softened with cotton and a tender, fragile love that was only just blossoming into something substantial. They swayed backwards to the bed, never leaving each other's arms. Arthur drew him closer and pressed their lips together, and as his fingers found Alfred's hair and tentatively wove through it, it was with a deep aching that Alfred resolved to distance himself from Arthur no longer.

They made love accompanied by the steady arch of desire, and though the night was long and the Beltane fires burned bright through the darkest hours, it did not feel as if they had been afforded enough time, nor as if they would ever be.

X

Dawn was but a little while away. With the muddied shore of the lake underfoot, Alfred ran, his breath coming in gasps and pants and searing his lungs. He cared nothing of it. Nothing could have mattered less in that moment than his own well-being.

The far side came into sight, partially shaded by the shadows of the forest. As he got closer, he made out vague outlines, then three distinct people: a pale-haired young man, prostrate upon the ground, his tunic stained with mud, rainwater, and dark blood, sightless eyes gazing skyward. In his unclasped hand was a sword, the edge and tip scarlet. The Lady Aislin sat several paces away at the shore, her priestess robes sodden across her lap. Cradled in her arms was Arthur, with Excalibur still in his grasp.

Alfred stumbled to his side and fell to his knees. The ground around them was damp with blood; Arthur's face had lost all color, as if it had bled out along with his vitality. He managed a weak smile when he saw Alfred. The gash on his chest, the one that sapped at his life, was still fresh

"And so it was true," he murmured. "I had a son." His breath came short and harsh, and his eyes closed in pain. "And now he is dead, by my own hand."

Unable to speak, Alfred grasped his fingers with his own. They were slowly growing cold.

"Sir Alfred," Lady Aislin said. Alfred looked at her blindly. "Take Excalibur and throw it into the lake, as far as you can."

"Why?"

She looked down at Arthur, and stroked his damp hair. "The young stag will depose the King Stag, and become King in his place. Such is the natural order. But today . . . the King Stag has killed the young stag. There will be no heir. None shall bear the Sword of Avalon again, neither for the Goddess nor in false name. Cast it into the depths of the lake, Alfred, where Avalon may reclaim it and restore it to its rightful place beyond mortality's reach."

Alfred did as she told, gently sliding the sword from Arthur's weakening hand, standing up, and flinging it into the mists of the lake with all of his strength. The three of them watched it soar through the air, end over glistening silver end, and vanish soundlessly into the clear waters.

"I have failed you." Arthur's voice was a bare whisper. "Both of you. I cannot ask for your forgiveness . . . I do not deserve it."

Lady Aislin inclined her head and rested her hand on his cheek. The blue crescent on her forehead glowed delicately. "I am also at fault, dearest brother. I should have been more loyal, and I should have raised our son properly so that neglect did not twist and befoul his heart."

Alfred stared at her, uncomprehending. "Our son?"

"Mine and Arthur's. The ritual of the King Stag . . . he did not know that the maiden he was to lay with was me, and I did not know that the King Stag taking part would be him until it was too late. And the boy's conception—fate was unerring in its intentions." Lady Aislin's voice was calm, but there was a single tear sliding down her face. "I told no one. To me, he was conceived in sin, birthed in guilt. I had the boy sent away and provided for by others. I acted as a stranger to him, not a mother, and he grew into a monster. He returned to exact his revenge on his father."

"No, Aislin. Do not blame yourself." Arthur's hand trembled in Alfred's.

The sky was lightening.

"It is time to say farewell," Lady Aislin said softly.

Arthur turned his head towards Alfred. His green eyes were dull. "I-I can no longer see your face . . . I can no longer see anything . . . why does it grow dark?" There were tears dripping steadily into his hair. "Is the sun setting?"

Alfred leaned down and pressed his forehead against Arthur's until he could no longer tell whose tears belonged to whom.

"Please do not leave me," Arthur whispered.

"I will not," Alfred replied. "Ever."

He held his hand ever tighter. And Arthur died, as the sun shone full over the shores of Avalon.

* * *

**A/N: Though written in my own words, I give Marion Zimmer Bradley, the author of _The Mists of Avalon_, credit for the last scene (including the closing line). I highly recommend checking out _The Mists of Avalon _- it's the absolute best retelling of the Arthurian legend I've read.**

**Yeah, I was pushing the definition of "Masquerade" for today's prompt. But since it's an AU, all of the characters are technically "in costume." ^^ And sorry for the angst. I swear I didn't mean to. It just kind of happened because I thought it was fitting.**

**I hope all of you who liked "Beyond the Mists" enjoyed this story as well!**


	3. Day 3: Sweet Tooth

**-x-x-x-**

* * *

**[Day 3: "Sweets"]**

**x**

_**Sweet Tooth**_

* * *

In all fairness, Arthur knew from the start that candy was Alfred's greatest love (second only to Arthur himself, or so Alfred claimed). But he never thought he'd ever walk in on Alfred in his living room and see him busy deep-throating the biggest candy cane he'd ever laid eyes on.

"Holy—what in the world are you _doing_?"

Alfred pulled the end of the candy cane out of his mouth with an obscene _pop_. He'd apparently already polished off the hook, leaving behind a smooth nub that shone white. "Eating a candy cane," he said innocently, but his pink tongue peeked out from between his lips to glide over the glistening, rounded end in a gesture that was just short of sexual. His expression remained entirely passive throughout. Arthur stared at him—stared at his finely shaped jaw, his spit-shiny lips, his raised eyebrows—and felt himself blush all the way up to his hairline.

He stuttered, "Where did you even get that thing? Christ, it's—it's longer than your forearm."

"That's what she said."

"Alfred!"

Alfred just laughed and beckoned him closer. Wary now, Arthur obliged. Once he was within arm's reach, the world suddenly flipped and he found himself on the couch, with Alfred grinning down at him and holding the end of the candy cane to his mouth. Arthur struggled for a second, but he gave up almost as soon as he'd begun; Alfred's strength was about tenfold his own, and they both knew it.

"C'mon, sweetheart. Open up for me." The candy cane prodded at Arthur's closed lips insistently, warm and sticky.

Arthur tried to muster up an indignant "no," but it came out as something more like "mmnh!"

"Suck it like you'd suck my cock," Alfred said huskily, and smirked when Arthur wriggled under him in surprise and embarrassment. "Aw, why so shy? I know how much you like it. Pretend it's all me; work it with your tongue, and take it all the way down your throat. Can'tcha do that for me, sweetie? You know I love watching you."

"Nnh!"

"Please, baby?"

Alfred was so damn charming when he wanted to be. Slowly, reluctantly, Arthur opened his mouth, and was rewarded with an even brighter smile and the smooth slide of the candy cane along the inside of his cheek. Its sweet, minty taste immediately bloomed on his tastebuds, and God help him, but having the sensation of something hard in his mouth and feeling Alfred's unsubtle warmth press down on him were enough to stir his arousal.

For a good minute or so, all Alfred let him see was red and white stripes; Arthur's jaw began to ache a little from the strain of keeping his mouth open for the candy cane as Alfred pumped it steadily between his lips. Alfred, for his part, appeared to be thoroughly enjoying the position he had Arthur in. His pupils had gotten wider, and his breaths were shorter. When he moved against Arthur to get more comfortable, the unmistakable rise of his erection grazed the inside of Arthur's thigh through his jeans. Arthur opened his legs farther to accommodate him and wondered hazily when he would give up on teasing him and fuck him senseless against the cushions.

It didn't take very long at all. With a groan tinged with desire, Alfred slipped the candy cane out for the final time and sealed his mouth over Arthur's. Unable to resist, Arthur kissed him back, hot and hard, their lips sticking together from the dissolving sugar, hands wandering and hearts hammering wildly.

Alfred's fingers worked fast, pushing aside fabric, undoing clasps and buttons and zippers. Arthur didn't even bother to protest as he was stripped down to his bare skin, opting instead to give Alfred a perfect view of his ass with knees spread far apart once his pants had come off. He closed his eyes in anticipation of being filled first with Alfred's fingers, Alfred's marvelously talented fingers, then with Alfred's thick, delicious cock—

What actually went in was a lot stiffer and stickier.

"Oh, bloody hell!" Arthur's eyes snapped open again.

"What? Don't you like it?"

"I—" Arthur stared down his body at where Alfred was pushing the saliva-slicked end of the candy cane into him, inch by tantalizing inch. "Putting that—that _thing_ in me—what are you—"

"It's just like a dildo." Tongue poking out from the corner of his mouth, Alfred tilted it until he found the magical angle that made Arthur go lax with pleasure. "See? Bet I can get you off with this as good as I can with your favorite vibrator."

Arthur wasn't in any shape to object, no matter how much he wanted to preserve at least a shred of his dignity. Five minutes later, he was gasping for air, abs convulsing, as he hit his peak in a mist of mint and sugary sweetness, the cloying taste of the candy cane as thick in his mouth as the cane itself felt inside him. Alfred let go of it, climbed up to straddle Arthur's face, and Arthur had his mouth filled to the brim again—this time with a real dick, Alfred's dick. Summoning up the last of his energy, he sucked on it the same way he'd sucked on the candy cane, keeping his teeth in check and twirling his tongue around it in lavish circles, and relished Alfred's moans as he brought his boyfriend to completion with an equally satisfied sigh.

They cuddled together on the couch afterward.

"You're lucky the thing didn't snap off while it was inside." Arthur yawned. "Or I would have killed you."

"I would've eaten it out of you if it did," Alfred offered.

"How considerate."

"Yup. You know me—Mr. Nice Guy, always at your service. Now . . . what do you say to a nap?"

"Sounds lovely." Arthur leaned against Alfred's chest, and they drifted off into a very content slumber.

* * *

**A/N: I don't even know. But I regret nothing, haha.**


	4. Day 4: Ocean Kiss (Part I)

**-x-x-x-**

* * *

**[Day 4: "Rainbow of Colors"]**

**x**

**_Ocean Kiss: Part I_**

* * *

_Sequel to "Sea Angel," which can be found here: www fanfiction net/s/7817459/6/It-Goes-Without-Saying-Baby (add in the periods). "Sea Angel" is the story of Arthur and Alfred's first meeting in this AU; I recommend you read it first to get the proper feel for "Ocean Kiss."_

-x-x-x-

Three weeks, two days, and four hours. That was how long it had been since Arthur had first met his sea angel. Three weeks, two days, and four hours of curiosity and conversation, laughter and lapses, wild pulses and even wilder blushes. An undertone of harmony laced through the time they spent together like silver filigree, and Alfred shone brighter than sunlight on cresting crystal waves. He was, doubtlessly, the most magnificent being Arthur had ever met. The perfection of his body, the grace and majesty of his merman tail, the quirky likeability of his personality—sitting beside Alfred on the cliff-side rocks and tasting the sea spray in the air, with the sights and sounds of Arthur's beloved Palonea just around the corner and yet so immeasurably far away from their little world . . . Arthur was enchanted. Utterly, wordlessly enchanted.

He woke every morning to the same light flutter in his stomach—half a sign of anticipation, and half a sign of the Sense at work. The flutter, he came to associate with Alfred's presence at the rocks. It was gentle and modest in the morning, wavering just on the edge of existence; by afternoon, Arthur's entire body was flooded with it, his limbs lighter and his head clearer and his heart beating a steady, noticeable rhythm against the inside of his ribcage. That was when he'd leave the house and head down to their first meeting place, and there would be Alfred, waiting patiently, sun-sprinkled scales glistening in the afternoon light.

Alfred's moods, Arthur came to realize, could be described in color. Happiness was a citrus burst, playfulness a dash of lime. Alfred's affection misted the air with pastel pink while his exhaustion tinged it a sleepy gray-blue; velvet gold meant lazy contentment as much as deep, bruised purple signified hurt and disappointment. His frustration was colored an inky ruby that made Arthur restless and his unhappiness a raw, fragile wisteria that caused Arthur's heart to clench. And to top them all, his exhilaration was a streak of pure iridescence, smooth and brilliant like the inside of an abalone shell.

Arthur wished he could be a painter. Then he could capture all of Alfred's shades of beauty on a canvas to preserve for a lifetime and more. He wanted to wake up each day to memories of Alfred's many colors, and go to bed with them dancing in a mosaic behind his eyelids. He wanted them to transcend the boundaries of art and imagination until they were a tangible part of his reality. He wanted to see Alfred, to study him, to memorize him in all of his glory with all the time in the world at his back.

Near the end of the month, Arthur woke up feeling strangely empty. At first, he couldn't quite pinpoint the reason—it wasn't as simple as hunger or thirst, and more complex than mere uneasiness—and he muddled his way through most of the day without understanding what he was feeling.

When afternoon came, however, it struck him.

And he realized it was what he _wasn't_ feeling that was bothering him.

The walk to the cliff-side rocks took two minutes instead of ten because Arthur practically flew. When he got there, it was like he'd been punched in the gut. There were only a few stray albatrosses pecking along the pebbly ground; otherwise, the place was deserted.

Where was Alfred?

Arthur picked his way to the very edge of the rocky outcrop and scanned the surrounding shoreline for a flicker of otherworldly blue-green, a flash of sun-bleached blond hair. Nothing.

He waited there for five and a half hours. Afternoon folded into evening, then gave way to night. The moon was high in the sky, earnest in its gown of dappled navy and midnight stars, but its silver light didn't reveal who Arthur was desperately hoping to see. When the lateness of the hour and chilling bite of the spray finally forced him to return home, it was with deep reluctance, bewilderment, and hurt that he turned his back on the rocks and went on his way.

Where had his sea angel gone?

* * *

**A/N: Here's the highly-requested sequel to _Sea Angel_! I couldn't finish this in time for the deadline, so I'll post the second half tomorrow. Hope you guys will stick around for it. :)**


	5. Day 5: Ocean Kiss (Part II)

**-x-x-x-**

* * *

**[Day 5: "Flowers"]**

**x**

**_Ocean Kiss: Part II_**

* * *

Arthur believed he finally understood what it meant to be "heartbroken" and "lovesick."

And yet, he didn't think what he felt could be described even with those words. They were too shallow, too generic . . . they were adjectives that could be applied to any person in any mundane situation. A lost cat, for example. Or an elementary-school crush. Ordinary, simplistic, unimportant things that were worlds away from charismatic, capricious mermen with melodious voices and spectrums of colorful emotion.

For four days, he woke with that horrible empty feeling. For four days, he tried to disregard it and walked faithfully to the rocks when afternoon trickled in. For four days, he sat at the shore until night turned the roiling, bottomless sea as dark as pitch—unable to accept that Alfred hadn't shown up yet again, that his world was once more reduced to black and white, that he was _alone_. He slept fitfully, in sporadic bouts, and ate even less than he slept. At the end of the fourth day, he could barely drag himself away from their meeting place. His knees nearly gave out from under him when he made to walk away, and it was through sheer will that he managed to reach his house on legs that he couldn't even feel anymore.

On the fifth morning, Arthur jerked awake to the strangest sensation. It was as if someone had unleashed a jar of bees in his stomach—the buzzing was so intense, his vision shivered. His mind whirled with half-blurred dreams about the ocean.

He didn't need time to figure out what any of it meant. He was out the door in two minutes.

His rush garnered a lot of odd looks from the other Palonea residents—"What, is that Arthur? Eileen's boy? Where's he hurrying off to so early?"—but he brushed past them without a sideways glance or greeting. Thankfully, no one followed him. He had to get to the rocks, and he couldn't afford to have another pair of inquisitive eyes tailing him . . .

He scraped up his bare feet in his scramble over the ragged ground without feeling a thing except a mounting excitement. Once he'd made it over the last obstacle in his way, he headed to the place where he'd been waiting for the past four days.

And there he was. Alfred.

Arthur knew immediately that something was wrong. Instead of lounging on his back, soaking up the sunshine, with his tail waving languidly to some music in nature that Arthur's human ears couldn't detect, the merman was draped across the rocks as if flung there by the ocean. His beautiful tail laid lifelessly at his side; when Arthur got closer, he saw that the scales, once polished to a glossy radiance by the water, were scratched and dull in ragged patterns all the way down to the caudal fin.

"Alfred?" Arthur said, throat quivering.

Alfred didn't acknowledge him.

Crouching down, Arthur reached out a tentative hand. Alfred's body was cool to the touch, so different from his usual rosy warmth, and still covered with droplets . . . Arthur placed two fingers on the damp, tender skin at Alfred's neck and nearly went weak with relief when he felt a pulse. His touch seemed to rouse Alfred; the merman shifted as his tail rose and fell with a weak _smack_ against the rock.

"Nngh" was the sound he made.

"A-are you all right . . . ?" Arthur was already running through a mental list of possible steps he could take to help Alfred. A doctor was out of the question, obviously. Maybe an emergency first aid kit? Did merpeople heal the same way that humans did? Would they respond to the same types of medication? "Er—where does it hurt?"

With visible effort and another groan, Alfred rolled himself over onto his back. There were some wicked-looking lacerations along his shoulder, the upper part of his chest, and down one arm, but they were curiously bloodless. Even under Arthur's concerned inspection, they appeared to knit themselves together, the skin joining and smoothing over to make Alfred seamlessly perfect once more.

"Not injured," Alfred said through gritted teeth. He sucked in a breath of air, then let it back out in a strained huff. "Painful, though. Got caught up in a riptide on the other side. Coral reef got in the way while I was riding it out." His eyes fluttered open for a second, and he gave Arthur a wry little smile before closing them again.

Palonea was indeed surrounded on two sides with coral reefs, which was why swimmers weren't allowed to go into the water at a beach unless there were lifeguards and special signs that allowed them to do so. "Um . . . I suppose I should have warned you. I'm really sorry."

Alfred shook his head. "Nah, it was all me. I should've known. I was being stupid." He passed a hand over his abdomen to rest at the place where his human body ended and his aquatic features began.

Fearing that Alfred was suffering from internal hemorrhage or something equally serious that his magic (was it magic?) couldn't cure, Arthur fumbled for what to do. "Where are you hurt? Is it somewhere inside? What can I do to heal you?"

To Arthur's surprise, Alfred actually chuckled, and winced immediately after.

"What?" Arthur demanded anxiously.

"It's . . . not exactly a 'hurt.' Just didn't find a mate this year. Kills me to have to go without—saps my strength, actually. Makes my immune system . . . not so hot."

Suddenly, Arthur didn't quite know what to say.

Alfred eyed him thoughtfully for a moment, then grinned. In a blink, his tail swept across the rock to curl about Arthur's ankles intimately, and Arthur found himself off-balance . . . with his hands on Alfred's chest to support himself. He sputtered, embarrassed, and started to pull his hands away, but Alfred's hands closed around his wrists to keep them there. The gleam in his eyes had turned from cheerful to coy; he looked up at Arthur, earnest, flirtatious, confident, his mouth quirked expectantly. "I've never had a human mate before. You can be my first."

"Wh-what? You want me to be your _mate_?" Arthur tried to backpedal. Things were happening too fast. "But . . . I don't . . . how would it even work? You don't have a . . ." And that was when the memory of their first encounter flashed through his mind and he remembered that yes, Alfred did indeed have one. The thought made him blush up to the roots of his hair. "Oh, God."

"It's okay. We can do it any way you want." Alfred's hand darted to his own hip and made a small unhooking movement, then another and another, as it slowly worked down the scratched-up scales. Arthur settled back on his heels and watched with fascination and confusion as a layer of scales seemed to slide right off the top part of Alfred's tail. When Alfred had gotten about a third of the way down, he stopped, and lifted away an entire sheet of the tiny, sparkling blue-green plates, which appeared to have been wrapped all the way around his tail, and set it to the side. Glancing up, he seemed to catch on to Arthur's bewilderment.

He said, "It's made of the scales we shed a couple times a year. The edge bits are bent into little hooks, see? Those are what keep the whole thing from falling off when we move—they latch onto the scales on our tails. We wear them for modesty."

That explained why Arthur had somehow managed to get under Alfred's scales when Alfred had allowed him to touch him for the first time. But then, that also meant . . . Arthur's eyes were drawn to Alfred's tail again.

What he saw made his cheeks burn even more.

Down the center was a vertical slit maybe three inches long, peeking out from between the overlapping chips. From just inside the top end of the slit rose what was unmistakably Alfred's male member, which didn't look that different from a human one save for the lack of visible testicles and the way it curved strongly backward towards Alfred's stomach. The head of it was an interesting shape—more pointed than rounded—but Arthur had to snatch his eyes away, face aflame, unable to bring himself to study it.

"You don't find me appealing?" Alfred asked, sounding dejected.

"No! I mean—no, that's not it. I . . . I do find you . . . appealing . . ." Arthur's mouth had gone dry, and he licked his lips, trying to find the words. "M-much more than I should, actually. It's just . . . I don't know if . . ."

"If we do mate, you can be the one to put it in me."

Arthur was fairly sure that there was steam coming out of his ears at that point. "Er . . ." His eyes wandered back down to Alfred's tail and exposed genitals. He couldn't help it. He was curious; he'd never seen another _human_'s private areas, much less a merman's.

Alfred laughed lightly. "I keep forgetting. Human males and females have really different parts, huh? It's not like that with my kind. I'm male, but you can still enter me. Here, see?" With a couple of fingers, he spread the lower part of the slit wide, revealing a small, glistening hole. It shuttered a few times under Arthur's gaze, slow and rhythmic like the lense of a camera. A quick glance up showed Arthur the honest flush of desire evident in the merman's upper body, but somehow, Arthur could also sense his patience, his willingness to wait until a comfortable decision could be reached.

There was no question now; Arthur was utterly captivated. His hand rose of its own accord, came to a rest on Alfred's tail, hesitated as insecurity overwhelmed him. Alfred seemed to understand. Instead of pressuring Arthur, or giving up on him, he took Arthur's hand with his free one and gently guided it towards his slit.

It was hard to clearly detail everything that happened next—the feel of Alfred's entrance, pulsing and fluttering around his fingers; the leisurely removal of Arthur's shirt and shorts; the whispers of sensation that Alfred's hands stirred up in him through touch alone—because the moments they shared were a series of snapshots in Arthur's mind. Impressions upon impressions, separate yet connected in a way that Arthur was at a loss to describe. Alfred on his back, body open, breathing unsteady, a longing sort of look overcoming his usual lighthearted expression. The sigh that passed his lips when Arthur slid in. The ripples of his beautiful muscles as they moved together, and the gasps and moans as pleasure, newfound for Arthur and an old friend to Alfred, overcame them both.

Afterwards, Arthur laid his cheek on Alfred's chest and listened to his strong, content heartbeat. "I couldn't have gotten you pregnant, could I?" he mused out loud, too worn out to let any real worry concerning the matter get to him.

"Nah. Mermaids have kids, not mermen." Alfred stroked his hair, half playfully, half affectionately. "I mean, only mermaids carry them."

". . . Do you have any children?"

Alfred shook his head. "I usually mate with other mermen, or with mermaids who are more mature. Only the very young mermaids get preggers a lot during mating cycles. The ones over a hundred . . . not so much."

Arthur looked up to gape at him. "Just how old are you, then, exactly?"

The merman broke into laughter, delicious peals that warmed Arthur and made his skin tingle. "I'm still pretty young." With that, he entwined his tail with Arthur's legs, and they basked in each other's presence until they dozed off.

X

From that day on, they met faithfully at the rocks, and whenever it came time for Alfred's mating season to begin, he would no longer disappear for days on end unannounced; instead, he'd let Arthur know (or Arthur would figure it out himself, which wasn't all that hard—it seemed mermen hormones attracted humans as well), and they'd make love with the company of the sea-salty air and the ever-shining sun. And sometimes, when they were done, Arthur could get Alfred to sing for him in that ethereal voice of his, and then he'd listen as Alfred's song traveled across the water. His own siren call, but only for Arthur, a melody both bewitching and haunting, intended not to lure in prey but to express contentment. And that was the most beautiful kind of song there was.

Over time, they gave each other little tokens: coins, buttons, and beads from Arthur, and various pieces of coral, sea glass, and mermaid's purses from Alfred. They each took a piece of their own world and brought them back to share, and it was like the objects they exchanged—while of little value themselves—had coalesced into a miniature, precious universe with just the two of them, one that wasn't entirely a part of the land or the sea, but one that transcended both.

Arthur could wake up in the morning now with that flutter in his midriff and know for certain that Alfred was waiting for him, and feel pride that a beautiful merman with such a quirky, lovable personality had chosen him as a lover. He could look at the shelves of coral, sea flowers, and colorful anemone in his room, all preserved by Alfred's touch, and know that future he saw in his mind's eye and the future that was laid out before him dovetailed to make a perfect whole. And then he would know, in those moments, that he would be with his sea angel. Always.

* * *

**A/N: And that concludes the sequel. It has virtually nothing to do with the actual prompt, haha. I was thinking that you could see the "tokens" they gave each other as substitutes (or equivalents) for "flowers," though. :)**

** I got unexpectedly busy this week and, in the end, decided to finish the remaining Sweethearts Week prompts in my own time. So, yeah. Thank you to those who've expressed interest and reviewed!**


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